I sometimes think I have been in school for too long.
It could be that I have started to feel decrepid amongst the schools of freshman, flitting about the hallways in a slew of giggles and iPhone and high heels and ball caps.
It could be that kids I used to babysit now have degrees (okay, a kid, singular, and the oldest, but still).
It could be that Labour Day is no longer about getting a new outfit or shiny squishy pens, as I was just at the university that week, and couldn't be bothered spiffying myself up for it yet again.
It could be that calculating the tuition paid by me over the years looks like the budget of a small African nation.
It could be that, in my most recent move, it occurred to me that I had more boxes of articles and other assorted papers than mementos.
It could be that every single person I ran into when visiting my home town inquired "Are you still in school?" or the more creative "How many more years until I can call you doctor?"
It could be that, as of yesterday, I have started my ninth year of post-secondary education.
That's right-- NINE.
(And it's not even my last year.)
Bless my seventeen year old self and her grandiose dreams of being psychologist-extraordinaire, but my present day self wants to go back in time and suggest dallying in the trades instead.